The Easel Of My Soul
by ArgetlamShadowmoon
Summary: Jasper thinks about how his life has changed, and whether or not it's worth losing Edward. JPOV.


A/N: My first published story. Yay! Please R&R.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything. Though, if anyone wants to give me something, I wouldn't argue...

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Do you think I wanted to be staring at that picture, wondering if it really was as important to me as I once thought? It was a quiet landscape, a winter scene in fact, where the stillness was so engulfing it seemed as if anyone who looked was intruding, and I couldn't help but think of the lone cube of cheese on a mousetrap. Snow was as fresh to the ground as a firstborn child to its potentially overbearing mother and the proud oak trees, with their arms held high seemed to be reacting to their newfound nudity with an air of freedom, stretching their newly lightened limbs to the sky, tickling the bellies of billowing snow clouds. The mountains in the background, especially the one with the slightly raised and jagged peak halfway down the right side, leered judgmentally as kings in their royal court. The few chilled sparrows and robins, off of whose nests hung icicles, remained huddled in their nests, hiding from anything that could disturb the stillness. These lingering few birds seemed as fictitious as the clouds in the faultlessly conceived, yet worn fantasies of the masses.

I see you at the steakhouse, the one that was between our homes on Highway 34, the one that we used to frequent together. I wasn't quite sure what motivated me to go there. We always went on your request; you were the steak fiend. Yet, I was there and I did have a craving for your favorite dish: the 8 ounce top filet. You had a futile, struggling smile on your otherwise judgmental mug. You express yourself reservedly, always trying to show exuberance, smiling, laughing and causing trouble, yet only managing a slight smirk. As I walk out, I catch your eye and nod—a stiff, curt nod, much as you'd grant a stranger—to acknowledge your presence, and silently asking if he is as good to you as I was. You slide your chair closer to his, yet otherwise refuse to take note of my existence. On the drive home, I think about menial things, generally regarding the cityscape. "Do I have bread at home?" while passing the bread shop. "How much will gas be tomorrow? Should I fill up?" after the local convenience store. Once I get home, I walk towards our—no, my—bedroom, thinking about how you should be a distant memory, a wisp of smoke diffusing into the atmosphere. I close my eyes and as I drift off to sleep, I think about you, that flair you always had for nature making me smile for the first time in...well, since you left. You would walk around talking of the fact that the red-crested warbler's mating call was considered an aphrodisiac among bird-watchers, or how the brown-chested orangutan showed aggression via hand signals.

Nature was your forte, the one area of your life I knew that you were content in. You would light up whenever I would turn the water off while brushing my teeth, you'd snap at me if I didn't turn the lights off when I went to bed, and through all of this, I learned how to love you more than my mind would have ever thought possible. I was definitely more academic in life, such as my focus on the reactions that occur between molecules of 2-propanol and 3-butanol. I'd remark on just how inefficient your walking patterns were (you always laughed at my attempts to get you to walk straighter) or how certain fabrics would react to heat and sunlight (you always seemed to wear dark clothes, even though I constantly warned you). Through all of our quirks, we definitely developed a schedule. Every day was the same. I would attend Chemistry courses at the local University, while you took environmental studies courses. I would meet you for lunch in the cafeteria. The food was sub par, but the conversation was excellent. We discussed everything from atoms to zebras, quenching both of our continual thirsts for knowledge, much as a thimble full of water would quench the thirst of a desert traveler.

We were practically living together. We spent so much time together, and we were so in love. We'd go to your house from class every day, sit together, and talk, telling each other of our respective days. It didn't matter to me how bad my day was, I always felt happier after talking, reveling in the fact that it was me you were talking to, taking pleasure in the fact that you felt the same. You should have loved this picture, the natural scene it portrayed inspiring something within you, possibly something primal? I never worried about how you would react when you saw it, but now I know I should have. I constantly have flashbacks about the day you found that picture.

The frozen stream that flowed from the mountain led to a lake on whose banks resided the trees in which the birds were perched. There was not a single cloud in the sky yet the sun was muted. It seemed timid, as if its mere appearance would shatter the silence and further harm nature. It was quite the ironic juxtaposition, the peace exuded by the painting and the sky in contrast with the disturbance that is death. There was an odd pile of jagged rocks at the base of the mountain, crouching towards the earth, waiting to mutilate the innocent. The paint was a bit off, and the painting seemed to have been painted in a rush. The yellow paint dripped from the sun, reminding me of the tears that fell on that day and also allowing me to see nature's anguish over what had happened.

It was so strange and so unique. I had never seen a painting as blunt as this one. Most other paintings that I had seen pulled punches, tried to tone down the emotion. This one, however, showed the brutality of winter, and the harshness of death. So strange, in fact, it was strange that I loved it. I inherited it from my father, 25 days after his untimely passing, with a heart attack the most likely culprit. Most of my visitors turned away from the view only moments after seeing it; all with varying shades of sorrow. Kinder pictures would inspire a sense of warmth deep within the soul, a visual representation of happiness. This picture showed none of these. It showed less inspiring ideas, the kind of ideas that human nature strives to distance itself from. The thoughts that show humanity that we are not the lowliest creatures on the planet, because there's something below us. Thoughts about why we are able to rise above the problems that we create for ourselves.

Why must you appear wherever I am? Have I done something to upset God? I only came into the store 3 minutes ago, and already my day is lost. I would never have thought that Wal-Mart would suddenly upset me. I wave, trying to seem genial, however, you stare at me and laugh. Is my situation amusing to you and your judgments? I frowned ever so slightly, wondering what I had done that was so funny. I didn't think you could see it, but you did. You walked down the aisle, turning your back on me with all the drama of a Shakesperean play, however, not before giving me that glare. The so-called "Ed Stare". The look in which your eyes became the rocks of Stonehenge, and your brows arched menacingly. You could use it in any situation, because it always conveyed the perfect amount of contempt and anger necessary for the situation. You were upset, but over what, I don't know. You glared at me as if I'd done something wrong, but what is "wrong"?

We always wondered if right and wrong were concrete locations, such as a town in the desert, or a motel in the suburbs. Perhaps they were more abstract, like a Picasso, but how can we truly define it? You were always good at talking of morality, the words flowing from your mouth like wine from the pitchers of gold in the Greek fantasies that were as expected as the thorn on a rose. Your speech eloquent and you the soloist of your symphony. I, for a time, wondered why you never chose activism or public office. However, that day you found that picture, I realized. Your eloquence is only one side, manifesting itself as disappointment and anger in troubled times.

I never had thought that you, of all people, would be one to blatantly dismiss this piece of art. I was so sure that you would look at it, study it for a moment, and then spout a random piece of trivia about the birds, the mountains, or even the trees. Never, in my darkest nightmares, had I ever seen the look that you gave me after you turned your head to look at me after the picture. You wrinkled your eyebrows together with the force needed to bend steel, pursed your lips (I'm sure with enough force to crack a walnut), let your nostrils flare, and you were beyond angry; you were pissed. You spoke slowly and strangled, yet with great force behind your words.

"You're joking, right?"

"No, this is the painting I've wanted to show you for a few days now. I haven't really had the drive to put it up until today. You know the hell I've been going through these past weeks."

I was putting myself and my dignity on the line. I turned away from you so I didn't have to see the dismissal in your eyes. It was a wasted attempt, however, because I still heard it in your voice.

"I know, I had to put up with you after he dropped dead."

"Wha..."

"Listen, this...this thing is a piece of crap. The snow is obviously fake, and those birds and fish are long dead. Besides, mountains don't look like that. They're more court jester material than king."

"I...I...I thought you'd like it."

"Well, I hate it, okay. It's cruel and unusual punishment to my eyes just looking at this...this...it doesn't even deserve to be called a painting."

I'm sure if someone had seen me, they might have said that I was unconscious. I closed my eyes to prevent myself from turning on the one bodily function that scared me more than your reaction: tears. I stood stock still, waiting for the inevitable rage, but it didn't come. I stood there trying my best to stay sane. In fact, I don't know if, at that point, I even wanted to be alive.

After you saw how your reaction had affected me, you apologized with gentle whispers and butterfly kisses, trying to bring me back from the edge of that cliff in my mind, the one that I used to determine whether or not this relationship was worth it. You constantly told me how much I meant to you and that you would be better in the future. You assured me that we would be fine, and that nothing could come between us. I should have listened to my head, but you taught me to listen with my heart. Spending my time with you was bound to affect me in ways that I wouldn't understand until they came into practice. Listening to my heart, birdwatching, recycling, conservation: these were examples of how you affected my routine, and I hadn't felt so wonderful in a long time so I would have been an idiot not to listen to you then. It worked, and for a few days, everything seemed to be better. Well, they _were_ better.

"What have you been doing with that painting, baby?" You asked, and although I knew the conversation would go quickly and not in any direction I wanted it to, I still answered.

"Nothing, it's still on the wall."

"Well, honey, why don't you just throw it away? It isn't helping anything, and you can't possibly like it, right?"

"Actually, yes. I do like it. It reminds me of my father, and how he used to be, before."

"Oh. Well, it's still crap."

As you were saying this, you shuddered a bit, and there was a look in your eyes that was very familiar to me, however, my rage overrode my ability to identify it. With those five simple words of yours, I jumped off of that mental cliff, hoping to land in one piece. Unfortunately, I don't have the luck required for that.

When I look back on the conversations we had, I realized why you hated that picture. How could I have been so unfeeling and cruel to remind you of the lowest point in your life; the accident on the ski trip that claimed the lives of your parents and sister. It was meant to be a loving family vacation for you but the avalanche didn't care. You blamed yourself because you were sick and stayed in the cabin that day. You had just come to terms with that and your independence when we met, and I had to go and remind you of what you lost.

That scene used to be perfect to me and there was a time when I wished I could look at this place and smile joyfully, but I couldn't. I can't honestly say I can cry over it at all. You see, I came to the conclusion that you were right. It was crap. No one needs to be reminded of the inevitable. Death will reach all of us in time, and, while we want to try, we are powerless to stop it. That painting reminded me of how much I felt like the sole piece of cheese that resides on a mousetrap, lonely and enticing, but with the possibility to break anyone who gets too close. The scene reminded me of you, of your shy, reserved nature, exhibiting that same stillness from the winter. You never showed your true self, but if anyone looked close enough, it was quite obvious who you were. You were my support, my water in the drought that was society. It seemed inconceivable to have lost all that over a picture. Such a simple seasonal landscape that meant the end of our relationship, but not the loss of our love. It was inconceivable, so I can only smile when I think about when I threw the painting into my fireplace a few days after you confessed. I now know why you hated that picture, as if it had been a green blob of oil and you were in your favorite shirt, and I'm surprised you never told anyone before. Well, I hope you're happy.

Maybe, someday, I will be too.


End file.
